


Overturned

by ObscuredTempest



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Other, Vivec also has a hard time distinguishing between vision and reality, Vivec is a disaster master, Vivec is still disparaging of his previous work, Vivec uses masc. pronouns but difficult gender issues, eventual Indoril Nerevar/Vivec, mentions of eyeballs, pre-Red Moment, that have not come up yet, though Vivec is a hissy bitch about him, we do not hate Voryn in this house
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-27 04:23:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20754281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObscuredTempest/pseuds/ObscuredTempest
Summary: [title likely to change] Vivec has an end-game in mind, but that doesn't make it any easier when knots form in the plans.





	Overturned

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slow one, both in terms of me writing it and the development.

It's quiet. Middle of the night, the outpost half-asleep or on watch against the open spans around them, and all Vivec can do is grouchily curse the twilight. _And_ the _great Grandmaster Dagoth_. Because oh, of _course _he'd snipe at Vivec's plan, drag Nerevar and everyone else into it. Because he could barely stand _Vivec_, couldn't he.

That is uncharitable.

Vivec doesn't always _do _charitable.

He's awake, he's irritable, he's pacing. The only thing that stops him is the sudden hand on his shoulder, provoking a sharp turn and a baleful stare. Sil, too tall for his own bones even as he stoops beneath his robes, looks down at him with little expression, not vacant but impassive; observant, Vivec knows. Sotha Sil _always_ knows. It's why Vivec willingly bedded him. Well, that and Sotha Sil had the thought to actually _teach_ what gutters and captaincy hadn't. Sigils, numbers, writing. And Vivec had learned quickly to put those to use, though none knew just how, yet. Later. They would know later. For now, he's more interested in what his fellow council-member (sort of; Vivec still can't shake the “junior” from his title) wants.

It turns out to be distraction. Not Sil's, but his own.

“If you aren't busy,” the sorcerer had murmured, bending close so his great height didn't separate them so much.

After, Vivec huddles into the giant of a mer, toying idly with strange metal after an assault had _relieved _him of the original flesh and blood. Deft fingers follow seams and panels higher until they meet with skin, and he knows Sil watches him.

“You're getting too good at reading me,” comes the little spymaster's complaint. General, spy, junior counselor. Vivec is many things. Thief, whore, seer. He leaves little behind.

_Daedric toy_, his mind doesn't supply.

Not for long, because everything will change—_ _he_ _ will change it. ...Not that he's quite sure _how_, yet, but he will.

“You don't hide well when you're...” Sil pauses, tips his head into the crook of his still-flesh arm, curling metallic digits when Vivec's own stray back to them, “displeased.” A relatively neutral word, Vivec thinks, compared to others. But that doesn't mean he wants to talk about it any more than that.

“You try getting overturned by _Dagoth Voryn_.”

Sotha Sil only hums, low, like he's reading some tome he's dragged out of a dusty store left for him by Divayth Fyr.

“That is not how I remember the exchange going,” he offers slowly, measuredly, “_but_ he does seem to be gaining Lord Nerevar's favour with it.” With the way Vivec goes rigid still caught under his arm, he sighs. “You fret he'll favour him over _you_.”

There are few secrets between Vivec and Sotha Sil. Sil is the only one to know so many.

“Hardly. He's too _self-important_ to—“

“Lying only becomes you when you use it to manipulate an _enemy_, Vehk.”

Sil soon has a chest full of irritation and defensiveness that yet manages to glare up at him. He has to tilt his head back, peer down his nose to see it.

“Stop being _right_.” And Vivec is a force, pushing and clawing and catching at lips with teeth as fingers find long silver-white hair, fisting in it to further expose the golden skin of Sil's throat. That there's no resistance, only encouragement, is equal parts frustrating and empowering.

That he wakes to Sil still beside him is a comfort. He doesn't drive the scholarly mer away with his tantrums. They have an _understanding_, and this is why Vivec keeps him close. Lips pass over cheek, over ear, and he carefully extricates himself to gather wrappings and garments.

When he looks back to Sotha Sil, tying straps in place, the smooth metal is flesh again, and Vivec mulls over that information. One of many possibilities, he decides, winding fabric around his neck. Perhaps less set than what it is they're doing here, but possible. Maybe he's tripped the thread that leads to it.

He knows he's tripped the thread that weaves the greater tapestry. The greater _web_.

-

When he next spies Nerevar, Vivec bites his tongue and manages as usual. He draws too-close, once, brushing against the Hortator's bare side to steal food left unattended, darting away in a rush of leathers and woven things and white hair.

“Really?” Nerevar's tone is full of mirth despite the chiding, betrays the smile he hides, and broad shoulders sag as he shakes his head. “You are _impossible_.”

Vivec almost has to laugh, but it would be a sharp and shrill thing, so he doesn't. But it's as if nothing happened, and it's almost _maddening_ . Nerevar doesn't have to bite his tongue and stow away the catty hissing, the dismissing, the need to re-establish _place_ . But they've both fought for theirs, and it makes sense, doesn't it? Nerevar sees it as just another moment, while Vivec _doesn't_.

But he wants and wants and wants, knows he does, too many ways, so of course he doesn't see it that way. That. _That_ is something he needs to cut away. That wanting.

He is doing this for a reason. He is doing this for his own benefit and his own outcome and he knows that. Nerevar is… The _sandalfoot _is _something_ along the way, just like the _scholar _and the _queen_ and the _sorcerer. _Stepping stones to keep near and use as he needs. He expects this.

What Vivec doesn't expect, but determines isn't too far out of the ordinary, is being yanked back to Nerevar's side by an arm loosely around his shoulders, wrap-covered palm resting against one. He doesn't quite hear what Nerevar says—does he say anything?—but feigns some degree of understanding, anyway (and it's easy, he's done it too many times to too many people). He swallows the petty urge to dislodge the other mer's arm, but Vivec _is_ petty in his way. He doesn't react when Nerevar prods him for an answer to a question, instead shrugging and examining the bit of stolen food.

He knows it cuts. Only a little, this isn't so serious, but he knows it does and it makes him feel better that Nerevar's pained for it. He leans a little harder into Nerevar's side, forcing the swordsmer to compensate for the new distribution of weight.

“I suppose it depends,” the thief finally concedes, though he doesn't know to what.

“This is a sulk.” Vivec watches Nerevar out of the corner of his eye. “You're sulking.”

“What makes you think that?”

“The fact that you're still picking at that same egg and not using it to mock my inattentiveness.” Nerevar makes it sound like teasing, the careful application of an upward rolling voice, but Vivec can hear the uncertainty behind it. He's been at Nerevar's side for far too long not to.

It might not be the best way to assert dominance in a situation, but Vivec stuffs the rest of the egg in his mouth as if it's a valid counterargument. The disbelieving not-quite-snort he gets for his efforts would indicate its failure. Nerevar pulls him tighter to his side, knocking their foreheads gently together before drawing back to look at him with strange-blue eyes (and Vivec contemplates if maybe he ought to pluck them out—entirely not to distract himself—but Nerevar needs to see).

“And now it deepens.” Does Nerevar _really_ need his eyes? He could do with only one, couldn't he? “…Vivec?” The way Nerevar's brow furrows, exaggerating old Ashlander marks—Ritual-healed until only ink remained—and the first hints of lines, and that specific angle of sound and word drag Vivec from his thoughts enough. Right, Nerevar is man-blooded. Maybe that's why, Vivec muses, not over eyes but over spidersilk threads.

“Didn't sleep well.” Short, maybe curt, but easy. And true enough: he hadn't slept well. He'd scarcely slept at all, even after leaving Sil's company. Vivec turns, pressing them shoulder to chest with his head tilted ever so slightly, as much to bring them closer as to escape the further loosened hold Nerevar has on his other shoulder. “Did you?” Vivec isn't sure if the stuttering in Nerevar's breath is shock or his mind trying to figure out which direction to take. There are a few, Vivec can see them, but there's only _one_ that's acceptable. The others are vanity or fleeting, and he doesn't want them.

Nerevar takes the correct one, a sudden dawning followed by a half-laugh, half-cough, and he turns away as he lets his arm fall.

“You should get proper rest while you can.”

Vivec hates him in that moment, and he isn't sure why.

He knows why later, though.


End file.
